Literature
The Fog
The Fog
shifts between states,
your moods are fault
zones and only you can sing
the mermaid song.
The body of water blots out
into distance of moss
broth. A kind of swampy
existence, like living
with mold and mice.
I'm nauseated by the constancy
of this map that goes nowhere.
This is a small mercy
for you, relying on the natural
phenomena that is
gravity, the geneological
magnetism that spits blood
and says, daughter,
this wasteland of us.
You emerge out
of that mud, hair sculpted
like a bronze goddess
and taught
fear to live inside me.
If I let you, you'll drown
me with your rituals,
rules, your menace,
a kind of mummery.
It leav